


The Undercover Job

by kentuckybarnes (hannah_jpg)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Also with hints of Chuck, F/M, Leverage!AU, Mutual Pining, Political Intrigue, Spy Stuff, bodyguard!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-06 04:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17338742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/kentuckybarnes
Summary: Unwillingly part of a criminal empire, you turn to your final, desperate hope: the Avengers. They answer your call - and Bucky Barnes is assigned your undercover bodyguard as the two of you navigate the dregs of your father’s illicit dealings to prevent him from seizing control of a small nation-state.





	1. Chapter 1

"What's this?" Tony squints over at the paper Pepper is sliding towards him - since it has a whiff of fanmail, his hackles are more than a little raised. He doesn't like fanmail. Since when does Pepper bring mail to Avengers team meetings? The interns are in charge of that sort of thing. Either Pepper's lost her mind, or this is something serious.

Weirdly, Tony would prefer the former.

"Fanmail," Pepper says briskly. "It's in code. What do you think?"

Tony sighs, and picks it up. The hand-scrawled number and letters are meaningless. Pepper probably already knew he would be absolutely clueless about the code - maybe she's just being polite in letting him try to figure it out before telling him what's going on. Or maybe Sam or Clint put her up to it, just to see Tony struggle. Even through the team is quiet at the board room table, he doesn't look around.

He lowers the paper. "You gonna tell me what this is?" Tony asks.

Pepper smiles. "Of course."

"Can I see it?" Steve asks. Tony slides it over to him, lifting his brows at Pepper as she clears her throat.

"We don't normally get mail like this, so it raised a flag," she begins. "One of the members of the marketing team downstairs is apparently great at puzzles - he cracked the code and forwarded it to me. And now I'm giving it to you."

"That still doesn't tell me what it says," Tony points out. Bucky snorts across the table, but Pepper is unmoved.

"It's from someone asking for help," she informs him, as Steve passes the letter to Natasha next. "The name signed suggests it's a girl from a small country in the vicinity of the Mediterranean. Her father is some high-up in the government and he's doing some pretty bad things. Criminal things. She wants the Avengers."

"Which country?" Steve asks.

Pepper pulls out her phone, and a projection of a map appears in the middle of the table. Tony frowns.

"She asked for our help? Specifically?" he asks. "It's illegal for enhanced-individuals to operate in that country. She should know that."

"Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn't," Natasha says. "But maybe she can't ask anyone else."

"Local police?" Tony suggests.

"Probably paid off by her dad, if he's a criminal," Sam points out.

"Interpol? UN?"

"Do you have the number to the UN?" Natasha asks sardonically, quirking a brow at Tony. "And do they listen to you? Do you think they're going to listen to a little girl from a nation that pays their dues?"

"Fair," Tony admits.

"If the guy is dabbling in illegal activities, chances are he's keeping the right eyes turned away," Steve says, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he studies Tony, much to Tony's discomfort. "The girl probably is asking us for help because she has no other options. What kind of father do you think this guy is? You think he lets her talk to authorities? Use the internet? If she's helpless enough to ask us, we should be the ones to help her. Leave petty crimes to local authorities; help those who can't be helped otherwise. Yeah?"

Oh, those words are bitter coming back to Tony. But Steve has a point. Tony sighs as he taps his fingers on the table.

"I don't disagree," he says at last, to the expectant looks of the team. "She needs help. The guy should be removed from office, obviously. But we have no power in their country - and the Avengers can't operate there."

"Curiously enough," Pepper interrupts. "It's her father that pushed that bill to be passed in the nation's parliament."

"So now we definitely know he has something to hide," Sam says, and Tony frowns.

"I don't doubt it. So, what's the plan, Cap?"

Steve appears startled by this change. "Well," he says after a moment. "We go in, plain-clothes. Find out what's going on. Get a feel for the situation - get evidence if we can, and give it to whoever has the capabilities to get rid of the guy. Whoever hasn't been paid off, I mean."

"Or we can gently suggest that they shouldn't accept bribes," Bucky drawls, and the little smirk on his face leaves no question to Tony of what sort of 'gentle suggestions' Bucky has in mind.

"The country is holding their elections next month," Pepper says, drawing attention back to the matter at hand. "The father is running for president. Polls indicate that he's going to be the clear winner - "

"More bribes," Sam mutters.

" - which would not be good for the integrity of the government. Short road to a dictatorship from there. What do you think, Tony?" Pepper finishes.

Tony sighs inwardly; he should've known. It goes against the grain to operate under the radar - secrets aren't really his thing. But it will do no good rushing in with guns blazing; not in this case.

"Fine," he says aloud. "Let's hash out the details of getting in the country, and get this show on the road."

* * *

 _Why does it always have to be security?_  Bucky thinks grumpily to himself, fitting an assigned com device into his ear.  _Couldn't have put me in the kitchens like Sam, or in tech with Tasha - no, it has to be security. It_ always  _has to be security_.

The single consolation is that Steve is on security, too. And Steve's disguise is thicker - dyed hair, fake nose, that sort of thing. It's worth a laugh - but still. Security is  _boring_  - and for the little girl who sent Stark the coded message? Bucky could be doing so, so much more.

 _"She's gonna become a fast target if her father catches word of what she did,"_  Stark had told him.  _"Keep her out of this, Barnes. No civilian casualties - literal or figurative."_

Bucky closes his assigned locker, deep in the mansion house, and follows the waiting head of security out.

Mr. Lalk is not one for words. Bucky appreciates that much.

The mansion house is located on a deserted beach about three miles from the capital city - a prime location, and certainly worth it. Massive windows and elaborately adorned balconies flank every single room, with views of the crystal blue sea to the east and south, and distant mountains and vineyards to the west. The picturesque city lies to the north. Bucky has to admit it's a beautiful place - but beautiful places can hide ugly secrets.

Lalk stops at the last door down the south wing. Folding his hands in front of him to appear stern, Bucky lets his eyes flicker around the ceiling. Two seperate security cameras, one pointed down the hall he came from, one fastened on the girl's room. Not a very trusting father.

A brisk knock, a tense moment, and then through the door a muffled, "Who is it?" Not as girlish as Bucky expected. Maybe she's a teenager. He frowns - that's even  _worse_. He's gonna talk to Tony about this.

"It is Mr. Lalk, madam. I have brought your new bodyguard."

"My  _what_?" The tone rises, and without waiting for permission Mr. Lalk opens the door. Yikes. Anyone can walk in? Bucky grimaces to himself.

The bedroom is full to the brim of bright sunlight, courtesy of the open balcony doors facing south. A salty wind filters in, smelling of hot fragrant flowers. Propped up in a chair, with feet resting on the doorknob of a balcony door - the girl.

Bucky blinks. Girl? Nope. All he can see is the hair, the bare feet, and nimble fingers turning the pages of a book that she's hiding her nose in. But he knows at once this isn't a little girl. Without looking back, she says with authority,

"I will have no guard, Mr. Lalk."

"Your father insists - "

"Doesn't matter," she returns indifferently.

"With the rising tensions from the upcoming elections…" Lalk's voice is growing shrill, and Bucky bites back a smile. Spirited woman.

"Which would be easily circumvented if he wasn't running for president," she interrupts.

" - your father  _insists_  you have a bodyguard, and that is final. If you wish to take it up with him, you may." Mr. Lalk ends with a sniff, and Bucky waits.

The feet fall to the ground, and he stares at the woman as she rises from her chair, turning to face Mr. Lalk with her chin in the air. For the briefest moment her eyes land on Bucky with some surprise - he feels the hair on the back of his neck rise - and then she regards Lalk coolly.

"I will," she says at last.

"Until then," Lalk says irritably, and he jerks his head towards Bucky before turning on his heel to leave the room in a huff. The door is closed with a slam, and Bucky swallows as he meets those eyes again.

"I'm supposed to stay outside," he says, a little roughly. "Um - I think he slammed the door to make a point." Immediately the cool features of the woman soften. Is that humor dancing in her eyes?

"Undoubtedly," she says. "You haven't known Lalk as long as I have." As she quiets, she catches her bottom lip between her teeth - Bucky swallows again, and finds that he somehow can't move as she takes a few steps towards him.

"You have a sister?" he asks next, desperate for some explanation. "Or did you send that letter?"

Her eyes widen slightly, and he can see the precise shade all the better. "There's a camera in here - " she starts to say.

"We have someone in the tech room. Don't worry about what you say," Bucky tells her. "Go ahead. Brief me."

She blinks. "Okay. Well - I did send the letter, yes. I didn't think…"

"That we'd come?"

"Yes." She squares her shoulders. "You were my last hope." There's a depth to those eyes, the quiet desperation and long-suffering that Bucky starts to feel a strange twisting in his stomach.

"We're gonna help," Bucky promises, even though he knows better than to make such promises.

Her lips curl into a smile - a very lovely smile, he doesn't fail to notice. The sea breeze is floating her airy wrap around her, and damn - if the sea doesn't set off those eyes perfectly.

Bucky realizes belatedly that he shouldn't be thinking these things.

"Two nights ago one of the candidates running against my father turned up dead in Spain," she says bluntly. "And just this morning another withdrew from the race and has apparently left the country. At this rate, there won't even be anyone else to vote for besides my father. Our current president is already sipping wine on his vineyard, anticipating a rich retirement."

"Sounds about right."

"I want to help," she adds, her voice getting stronger. "But I don't know what to do. I don't know what I  _can_ do."

"We're gonna get proof of crimes to the right people," Bucky says. "You can help us find what we need. Stark's looking into potential enforcement that can help for when the time comes. Until then, I - um,  _we_ need you to keep your father from suspecting anything. It's illegal for us to even be here."

Her nose wrinkles. "I know. That stupid law. You must think I'm an idiot for asking for your help."

Maybe he had. But not anymore. Because she's pretty? Bucky decides that Sam had better not find out, or he'll never hear the end of it.

"I think you're in a difficult position," Bucky says diplomatically. Steve would be so proud. "It's hard to live in the shadow of evil and unable to fight it."

"I'm going to fight it," she says fiercely, and her fingers clench around the spine of her book. Bucky wets his lips. "Whatever it takes - I hate the illegal money, I hate that everyone I know seems to turn up dead, I hate the cheating and I  _hate_  that I have to pretend that I like it. This place is a prison."

"As far as prisons go, this one isn't so bad," Bucky tries to joke. It falls flat. Nope, Steve wouldn't be proud, and her eyes glitter.

"Do you know how my father came to own this property?" she asks, lifting a brow. "No? I'll tell you. It belonged to a man named Tutoi - he became addicted to gambling and wagered it. Perhaps not so bad a story?" Her lips are thin, pressed together. "My father hired the men to pressure Tutoi to keep gambling. To rile him up, to give him more liquor, to make him angry and reckless. And the man that won the house 'gifted' it to my father while Tutoi was in prison for drunkenness. All because my father wanted the view."

Bucky's jaw is ticking.

"So yes," she adds, and steps even closer to Bucky now. He can smell her perfume, and he tries to swallow it away. "This is a prison. And I would rather sleep in the streets than this stolen bed."

Bucky tries not to look at the bed across the room. The gold, gilded canopy wants his attention though.

"What are the chances we can talk to the man that won the house for your father?" he asks hoarsely.

"Very poor. His bones rot in the sea. My father is especially skilled at burning his tracks."

"Ah." Bucky can't look away from her face - the determined expression, the hidden horrors that she must be carrying on her shoulders. Even as annoyed as he is that Stark never figured out it wasn't a little girl that sent the coded message, but a young woman too enchanting for her own good - he feels more than a little twist in his heart; of sympathy, mostly, and a burgeoning urge to protect her. No innocent person should have to endure this.

Her lips part slightly as he reaches to pick up her empty hand in his own.

"We're gonna help you." His voice is softer now. "And you're gonna help us. Is that okay?"

A nod.

"Do you trust me?"

A hesitation, then another nod.

"Then let's start with where we can find some hard evidence."


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky's shift ends at 10 p.m. It's a long day - although considering how well security is paid, he shouldn't complain. But he does, anyway, to Sam in the mostly-empty kitchen sometime around midnight. As the newest kitchen employee, Sam has been given the worst jobs - that being, nightly dish duty. Bucky doesn't envy him that.

Bucky heaves a sigh, picking around a plate of leftover something, which had been served at dinner. Meals are included in the deal - which is nice. He supposes. "I dunno, man," he says. "It's like they don't expect me to sleep. Or have any time off. When am I supposed to be searching through files and records if I only get eight out of every twenty-four hours off?"

"Don't ask me," Sam tells him stoutly from the sink, where he's drying crested silverware. "At least your fingers ain't all prunes."

Bucky grins.

"Say, how's the girl?" Sam asks suddenly. "How many games of My Little Pony did you play this afternoon?"

"She's not a girl, Sam," Bucky says, trying to ignore the twist of nerves in his stomach. "I mean - she is - she's just - not as young as we thought."

Sam's eyes widen, pausing in his task. "Is that so? Is she old, then?"

"Older than My Little Pony."

"So, young?"

"I guess so. I didn't ask her age, Sam!" Bucky adds, a little testily, but that doesn't go unnoticed. Sam chuckles.

"Is she cute?" he asks next, a sly look in his eye.

"Well - sure, but - "

"Are you gonna have a  _conflict of interest_?"

"Sam…" Bucky says in warning, scowling.

"What? I'm only asking - "

But Bucky interrupts. "Ask something useful for once, Wilson. Like how I'm gonna be searching the basement when the entire house is on nightly lockdown."

"Nah, I know you'll figure that out," Sam says wisely. "You always do. And don't ask for my help. I gotta be up at four a.m."

"Like I'd want to be listening to your complaints the entire time, anyway." Bucky pushes away his plate, slouching in his chair as he frowns. Sam clicks his tongue, but says no more. The reprieve only lasts a moment - Natasha enters into the kitchen from a sidedoor, looking remarkably chipper.

"Hello, boys," she says cheerily, and peers over at Bucky's uneaten supper. Then she picks up his fork and sticks some in her mouth.

"How's tech duty?" Sam asks.

"Great. Air-conditioned, unlimited snacks and drinks, easy to hack. And the other techies aren't smart, so I can rig up some permanent stuff so I can take a break for the rest of the mission."

"See, that's not fair," Sam says.

"Totally not fair," Bucky agrees.

"By the way, Barnes," Natasha says casually, sitting on top of the table as she continues to eat. "You might want to, um, you know - not hold the mark's daughter's hand all sentimentally. I mean, don't make a habit of it. Undercover, Bucky - remember?"

"Whoa, he was holding her  _hand_?" Sam gushes. He looks as though Christmas has come early, and Bucky fights back a blush.

"She's nice, okay?" he grumbles. "And she didn't ask to be involved with all this. I was just tryna be nice to her."

"Uh huh.  _Nice_." Sam exchanges a wink with Natasha, who smiles.

"Don't get attached to missions," Nat warns Bucky. She's clearly enjoying herself. Bucky glowers - he can't help finding the mark's vibrant daughter attractive, any more than he can help the fact that his teammates are going to be taking the mickey out on him until this is over. And beyond, probably. But what can he do about it?

"Better than doing dishes until midnight, or being surrounded by sweaty IT guys," Bucky snarks, and pushes his chair away from the table. "Night, guys. See you later. Maybe." And he stalks away, not even looking back to see Natasha's open-mouthed surprise, or Sam's offended dignity.

It sure feels good, though.

* * *

Gnawing your lip, you stretch your arm back as far as you can - but your fingertips only brush the zipper at the back of your dress. You try instead going up from the bottom - not even close.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The dress. The supper party you have to attend. Just  _everything_.

 _It'll be over soon_ , you say to yourself, breathing out as you study your reflection in the gilded bathroom mirror. The supper party will only be a few hours. And the sham of a life...your father's stupid criminal money, his suffocating control. It'll be over soon. Even though you haven't seen any Avenger besides Bucky, he's hard to dismiss. As your cheeks warm, you wonder if it bears some scrutiny how eager you are to trust him. How  _easy_ it is to trust him. Even though you've only known him a day and a half now.

Bucky. Of course.

Picking up your strappy heels, you wander out of the bathroom and across your bedroom. Tugging on the handle, you stick your nose out to eye Bucky - he's sitting in a chair to your left, looking bored despite the novel you'd given him to peruse.

"Hey," you say. He jolts, and tilts his head to meet your eyes. "I need help."

"Help?" His deep voice thrums. Ignoring the little shiver that crawls up your spine, you lift your chin as he stands to his full height, frowning as his brows crease.

"It's nothing serious," you say quickly. "It's only - I can't zip my dress."

Bucky blinks. "Oh."

You open the door a little more, and twist 'round so that your back is facing him. There's a silent moment, as if the air itself is holding its breath, and then you feel Bucky's warm fingers through the silky fabric. A slow  _zip_  breaks the silence, and you breathe again.

"Thank you," you say, turning back around with a smile. His ears are red - and very cutely so - and he quickly drops his hands to his side.

"Nat's never gonna let me live this down," he mutters under his breath.

"Hmm?" Tugging on a heel, you glance back up.

"Nothing. Are you ready?"

"Almost. Are you?"

Bucky's lips twitch. "Just had to swap out my necktie for a bowtie, so yes."

"So much easier," you sigh, and reach into your bedroom to grab your clutch.

"You look much better than I do, anyway," Bucky says, as the door clicks shut behind you. Baffled just for a moment, you stare up at him - and then laugh. He's blinking - maybe he regrets what he said. Maybe it came out wrong. Maybe he just doesn't have a filter.

"Tell me about the party tonight," Bucky says briskly, and the strange moment passes. As you walk down the corridor, he keeps a half-step behind you, as his job requires. But you'd rather have him beside you - it's awkward to talk over your shoulder.

"My father has invited some constituents to supper," you explain. "Usually at these events he wishes them to remember who he is, how wealthy and powerful he is, and what he expects from them. All disguised as a social event."

"And you're required to be there?" Bucky asks softly.

"Always. He wishes to remind me the most."

Down a set of marble steps, and the sounds of music begin to filter in from the largest dining hall. Before you draw any nearer to be overheard by the guards outside the double doors, you pause in front of a mirror, pretending to check your hair.

"Have you had a chance to look in the basement rooms yet?" you ask under your breath. Bucky's voice behind you is just as quiet.

"No. The only time I'm off duty is when the electronic security systems are their tightest. I'll need some specs on the system to give to Tasha before we can hack in."

"I have a better idea," you decide. "My father will be distracted tonight - I can pretend to be sick, and we can sneak down to the basement. There should only be one guard down there, but we can use his clearance card to get in. If your Tasha can help with the cameras."

"She's not my Tasha," Bucky says immediately. "But it's a fair plan - I'll arrange it, and you can go back to your rooms while I search."

"No. I go with you." Straightening, you plaster on a smile and walk on towards the dining room. "Because you probably don't know the way."

You've got him there. You know it. Bucky's tetchy silence behind you proves it.

With only a couple hours of pretending to enjoy yourself to get through - there's something more to look forward to. With luck, you and Bucky will find what he needs tonight to start an investigation. Soon, soon…

It's a scene you've faced time and time again, that your senses have grown dull to the dozens of candles around the dining room, the clink of champagne glasses and the chatter of a few different languages as a dozen white-jacketed footmen bring course after course. Nerves keep from from eating too much - that and the heat of Bucky's intense gaze around you from where he's stationed by the dining room doors. He has an uncanny stare. Does he know?

The weary minutes as the dessert course drag on - until, finally, Father stands to announce the party to be adjourned in the billiard hall. More chatter as people stand to lazily make their way to the next room, but you hurry up the table.

"I'm feeling unwell," you say lightly, noting Father's small smile as he lowers his head for you to kiss his cheek. "See you tomorrow?"

"Of course, my rose. Do I need to send for a nurse?"

"No, I am going to turn in early."

"Good night, then."

"Good night." A smile, and you turn to sweep out of the double doors, which have been opened again. You don't dare look at Bucky - one does not look at their employees, after all - but you sense all to well the moment that he falls in step behind you. Maybe it's nerves, but you wave your clutch at your face to cool down as you take a steadying breath.

Showtime.

The rest of the guests file east towards the billiard room; you continue south. But before turning the corridor towards your rooms, you bank right towards the kitchens.

"Will the cameras be diverted?" you ask, without turning around.

"Yes. Tasha's looking out for us."

"Good. There are a few ways to get to the basement entrance; we're going to take the one least likely to be busy."

A left, a right, and a shortcut through a dimly light library. The house is very quiet away from the party; you can hear Bucky's even breathing behind you, and twisting slightly, you cast him a look.

"No one's watching. You don't have to follow."

"Oh, but I do." His smirk is deepened by the shadows cast by a nearby lamp. "I don't know the way."

A snort escapes you before you can help it. Down another corridor, and you pause outside a closed door.

"There's a staircase behind here," you tell Bucky beside you. "There will be a guard at the bottom, most likely. I'm not sure how we can remove him without him seeing us - or reporting a break-in. But we need his card to get any further."

His brows pinching, Bucky pats down the pockets of his jacket. Then he reaches inside with his gloved hand, and pulls out - a device that you don't recognize. A pen? A straw?

"I got this," he says, flashing you a grin. Face hot, you step aside to allow him to open the door. Very quietly, and just a crack - then Bucky squints inside as he puts the device inside. The smallest  _pop_ , then a grunt. And silence.

"He'll be asleep for a half hour," Bucky says, tucking the device back in his pocket. "Won't even remember he was asleep."

"Convenient," you say, arching a brow as you pull the door open the rest of the way.

"Very convenient." Bucky's teeth flash a smile in the dim light, and you hurry down the stairs first.

Only a few safety lights adorn the walls, and you give the slumped over guard a cursory glance before continuing on down the hallway. The concrete floor and walls are not particularly pretty - not pretty at all, actually. But the archives are close. It's only because of years of snooping and eavesdropping that you even know this room exists - not every bit of evidence can be dumped in the sea.

At the end of the hallway, there's a massive iron door, painted with yellow and black stripes. Bucky lifts the swiped security guard's clearance card to a pinpad, and it beeps open.

"Is he gonna lose his job?" Bucky asks.

"It's possible."

"Will security be tightened?"

"Also possible." You step into the next room, and lights immediately flicker on above. Rows of metal shelves, and dusty knickknacks interspersed with filing cabinets, boxes, and larger items hidden beneath canvases and tarps. It's utterly silent, and you can smell the dust and old glue.

"So, what exactly are we looking for?" Bucky asks after a moment.

"Something illegal, I guess." Not that you really know; while you know of your father's activities, the details have ever been concealed. Your heels clicking eerily in the silence, you stride forward to peek into a box. The date on the outside reads '1998,' so you move on.

"How about art smuggling?" Bucky calls across the room, peeking beneath a dusty sheet.

"The proof of that will be upstairs," you reply. "The originals on display, unless my father gets a hint of authorities dropping by. He'll keep the copies down here, more likely."

"Makes sense."

Jewel cases - empty. Papers in a dozen languages or more - indecipherable. Photographs - thirty years' worth, most likely - but you recognize none of the people in them. Frayed ropes and even a pair of dancing shoes. The shelves yield mostly nothing.

"These files are old," Bucky comments with a frown, as you wind your way around the last shelf on your side towards him. "Too old. Here's a newspaper clipping about a missing statue from the collection of the Countess of Pembroke."

"Is there a picture?" you ask, peering over his shoulder. "Ah, yes - that one is on display in the east drawing room."

"If we take him by surprise, we can at least get a dozen or more counts of stolen goods taken care of," Bucky says dryly, closing the file to tuck it away. But something catches your eye, and you put out a hand to stop him.

"Wait - that file there - what's the name on it?"

"Erm - Sergei Moreau."

"I know him." Frowning, you pull out the file and study it for a moment as Bucky waits patiently. His head tilts towards the door, but you hardly notice. "He was a teacher at my primary school," you say. "But he went back to his home after…" Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you give yourself a mental facepalm. "Of course. Father probably removed him."

"Er, yeah?"

"Yeah. But there's nothing on here that says he was killed," you add, turning over the file and seeing only a street name in Paris. "If Father removed him, it would have been for a reason. And he's alive. How about a witness, Bucky?"

His eyes meet yours - and for a moment you nearly forget to breathe at the piercing light of his blue eyes. Even with how dim it is, they still shine, and Bucky doesn't speak for a moment. Then, hoarsely, he says in a murmur,

"Um, yeah. Yeah, that'll help. Let me, ah - " And he fumbles in his pocket for a phone - which he's undoubtedly hid from Lalk - taking quick pictures of the pages. All in French, of course. "I'll send these to Stark and he'll dig up something for us," Bucky promises, tucking his phone away. "Then we can - "

The sudden sound of voices makes you jump. Whirling around, you see a brighter glint of light from the hallway as Bucky shoves the files back into place before grabbing your hand. You have no choice but to be dragged along - until Bucky stops, staring up at the ceiling.

"No other exits?" he asks.

"Erm, no."

"Think again." He reaches up to dislodge the metal grating of an overhead vent. The voices are coming nearer. Before you can say anything, Bucky hoists you up by the waist and you grip into the cold metal of the vent - it's larger than you expected. Another push and you clamor inside. Making more noise than you should, probably. Shifting to the side on your stomach, Bucky soon pulls himself up, squishing beside you. Footsteps, now. Quietly Bucky replaces the grate, and you try to hold your breath.

"Must've left it open while I was making my rounds," a voice says. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't forget again," comes Lalk's cold voice, "Waste of electricity to leave on the lights."

"Er, yes, sir."

"And your badge is on the floor - shall I staple it to your head next time?"

"Er, no, sir - I'll keep a better hold of it, sir."

Then the lights below are turned off completely, and you catch your breath in the total darkness. The terrifying and sudden  _clang_  of the iron door closed, and beeping of the lock. Then the footsteps retreat, as well as Lalk's scolding and the guard's weaseling.

"Shoot," Bucky breathes, and you can feel him shift slightly. The vent isn't really made for two - or one, really - and even laying on your sides you can feel every inch of him pressed against you. His breath is hot on your face.

"Sorry," you mutter.

"Not your fault." More wriggling, and you see a dim bit of green from his watch in front of his face. "Nat," he whispers into the watch. "Nat, can you get us out of here." A moment passes - in the enclosed vent, it grows warm quickly with two bodies so close. And Bucky is wearing a full tuxedo. Sweat begins to bead on the back of your neck, and you suck in hot air.

"If we're lucky, Moreau will be a good lead," Bucky whispers, quirking a brow at you.

"I hope so. Because I'm not sure I want to get caught in a vent again."

His laugh is little more than a huff as his watch begins to flicker with more light. "Ah," Bucky says with satisfaction. "Nat found us a route out. This will go well."

"A route...through the vents?" you ask, askance.

"Yep."

"I didn't even know they were this large, let alone that they go throughout the house."

"Apparently so. I'll lead the way, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay." You duck your head as Bucky slithers ahead of you - soon you can breathe better, but then his dusty shoes are in your face. Lovely. As soon as he's out of reach, you prop yourself on your elbows to follow at an army crawl. Grit of dust and dirt press into your arms, and the air is musty - but you keep your eyes on Bucky's dark form ahead, and keep going.

You're going to need a good excuse for ruining your dress.

Minutes pass - but they feel like hours. Your muscles burn from the effort, being unused to this specific sort of exercise, and even the occasional whiff of fresh air from the vents you pass is enough to make your lungs and nose desperate for a proper breath.

"You okay?" Bucky's quiet voice fills the vent, and you swallow.

"Erm, yeah. Are we almost there?"

"Not quite. Need a lift?"

You squint - he has paused, and you can see a sliver of his face as he looks back at you. Before you can answer, he wiggles out of his jacket, his white shirt bright in the vent.

"Come on," he says as he straightens. "Piggy back. There's enough space overhead, I think."

If you weren't so tired, you'd question this - but weariness keeps you crawling ahead just a bit further. Then your hands are planted around his legs, then his torso - and finally, as Bucky keeps perfectly still, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and relax on his back with a sigh.

"Better?" he whispers.

"Yes. Thank you. Are you?"

"I'm fine."

Whether this is true or not - you suspect Bucky won't elaborate. And he doesn't. Immediately he picks up the pace, crawling ahead as you bump a bit on his back. With your nose so close to his neck, you can smell him very well - too well, considering you barely know him. Then again, your front is pressed  _very_ snugly into his back.

He follows the little route on his watch, and within another five minutes he stops at a vent lit by a golden glow. "Here we are," Bucky murmurs, and he shifts to the side so you can squirm off. He drops through the vent first, and you scoot around so that your feet are hanging down before you drop into your own bedroom.

Bucky catches you in a flare of skirts, and you swallow thickly as he sets you down gently on the ground.

"Not bad," he says, throwing you a smile as you smack some dust from your hair.

"This had better be a good lead," you say back, returning the smile. There's a pause after that, and then Bucky clears his throat, shaking out his jacket.

"I'll go follow up. Nat will restore your camera to regular feed in ten minutes or so - is that enough time?"

There's a sense of disappointment - though you aren't entirely sure what the disappointment is for. More research required before Father can be discredited? That Bucky is leaving you alone? It must be the former.

"Sure," you tell him.

"Then see you tomorrow."

"Thank you for your help, Bucky," you say to his retreating back, and he glances back over his dusty shoulder.

"Good night." And he's gone.


	3. Chapter 3

As far as posing as a security guard goes, he could certainly be worse off.

Bucky stands stiffly by a door in the south parlor, attention on you but his eyes on the opposite wall. There are housemaids ducking in and out to dust painting and replenish vases of fresh flowers - otherwise he'd speak to you. But the tinkling music coming from the piano you're seated at is pleasant enough, for now. He recognizes the song as something his sisters practiced, long ago.

Yes, he could certainly be worse off - not that he'd told Sam or Natasha that the night before. But your company is surprisingly enjoyable; your stubborn assistance actually helpful - and you're brave. Brave enough to help the team in their mission, instead of waiting around for them to do all the work. Bucky admires that. He's met too many people that sit back and expect the Avengers to save their backsides while they relax and sip martinis.

His eyes flicker to yours, but they're trained on the keys you're playing.

More than brave. Elegant and feminine in a way he doesn't normally couple with willing to crawl around in vents. But you'd done it. He could've carried you the entire way - but you hadn't complained. Had he tested you? Not precisely...perhaps just tested the waters, so to speak. To understand the target's secretly rebellious daughter a little bit better.

A door to his left closes. The housemaids are done.

Casually Bucky wanders to the window, only a few feet from where you're sitting. He peers out towards the city to the north, dappled by yellow sunshine. Below, the mansion courtyard is teeming with a few cars, a few people. Gardners. Drivers.

"Do you have anything on Moreau?"

Your voice is so soft Bucky might have imagined it. The piano continues to play - you hadn't even missed a note. Very impressive.

"A few details of his life, but nothing major yet," Bucky replies. "Local police will bring him in and start tugging on some strings - Stark can fly him here if we need him."

"Good."

The lilting music is gentle in his ears; like a summer rainstorm or sailing on a glossy lake. Distracted, Bucky finds that he has wet his lips, but he doesn't know why. What was he discussing with you, again?

 _"Someone's coming,"_  says a hissed voice in his ear. Bucky jolts, striding back to his original position. Your eyes flicker to him, and he gives a shrug. He'll explain the com in his ear from Natasha later. Not a moment later a single knock sounds on the door opposite him, and a woman enters.

"Ma'am, the garden party at the president's estate is to begin in an hour - "

"Oh, right." Your playing stops abruptly. Bucky's eyes follow as you stand, rifling through sheet music to be put away, and closing the lid over the piano keys. He'd forgotten the garden party this afternoon, and by the looks of it - so had you. As you leave the room, he follows behind, exchanging curt nods with the other security guards he passes.

Garden party. Maybe Steve will be there with your father - Bucky hadn't seen Steve since arriving in the country. Your father has been busy at Parliament, and Steve had been off duty the night before.

Bucky snorts to himself. If he'll even recognize Steve with black hair and a hooked nose.

A half-hour later, after you've changed into appropriate attire for a garden party (Bucky tries not to admire the swishy skirt around your knees too much), it's into a black car, and Bucky sits in the front after closing the door behind you. The driver doesn't speak. Good.

He peeks back in the mirror at you. Your eyes are misted over, bored, even, as you stare out the window at the scenery passing. Safe.

The president's estate is in the foothills; away from the sea but surrounded by lush gardens and vineyards. Bucky ducks out of the car, eyes scanning around and seeing mostly ornate statues and wealthy people. Harmless, on first sight. No sign of your father.

He opens the car door, and you step out. Bucky tries not to look. Really, he does. But his eyes are drawn to you like a magnet.

Through the foyer of the stone mansion, and to the gardens behind the house, where tinkling glasses and light laughter can be heard. Bucky's stomach turns in on itself a little bit (he hates things like this), but he keeps his focus on you as you alight down the stone steps to the party.

Keep an eye on you. That's all he has to do.

Oh, right. The mission. Maybe he should be thinking about that, too.

Other security guards are stationed around the party in intervals; as you greet a little elderly lady sitting down at a table, Bucky stands aside, near enough to hear the conversation, but not enough to threaten anyone. Yet.

_"How is Mr. Snuggles, madam?"_

_"Oh, he's very well, very well indeed...misses chasing the squirrels but alas, age has its toll…"_

Bucky's eyes wander. And good thing, too - he sees Steve's disguise across the marquee, and struggles to suppress his grin. Steve is frowning, and beneath his sunglasses there's a narrowed look in Bucky's direction.

You move a table over, to speak to a thin, slender young man that Bucky eyes askancely for a moment before dismissing. Ten more minutes, and Steve stalks around the party, coming to stand beside Bucky with his hands folded in front of him.

"How's it going?" Steve asks in a mutter, out of the corner of his mouth.

"Just fine," Bucky replies, just as quietly. "Heard from Nat?"

"Yep. So who's your girl? How many friendship bracelets have you made so far?"

Of course. There's a mission at hand, a crime lord to dislodge, and Steve's on the same page as Nat and Sam, teasing Bucky about the girl.

"Blue dress, eleven o'clock," Bucky says stiffly. There's a pause as Steve searches her out, and then a satisfied hmm.

"That old, huh?"

"Not old - " Bucky tries to say.

"Fine, not old. But I saw the letter she sent. Her handwriting is atrocious."

Bucky scowls, and grunts in reply. "And how's the target?"

Steve nods towards the other side of the marquee, where your father is in deep conversation with an older gentleman in an Armani suit, who is holding a small dog in his arms. Gross.

"Not tough to follow," Steve says. "But the dude's messed up. He sent out a hit on his second-to-last opposing candidate, and she was checked into a mental institution in Switzerland just this morning."

"And the last candidate?" Bucky asks.

"Talking to your girl."

Oh. Bucky's eyes flicker back to you, and that slender young man. He has a nice face, but he's jittery - nervous. Which he should be.

"Is he on the hit list, too?" Bucky asks, completely neutral.

"No. He won't be, either - gotta keep up appearances. Have a real election. But not one that poses a threat to the target's success."

Bucky's mouth tastes sour. Still watching you, that lovely smile as you clearly try to put the young man at his ease. People like you, and you like people - it's no wonder your father keeps you around. You're good for business.

"What about the evidence you've been shaking up?" Steve asks next.

"We have a potential witness for several crimes. Stark's rooting him out of hiding."

"Good."

"Pretty impressive the target keeps you around, considering you barely got hired," Bucky says after a moment, amusement twitching his lips. But Steve only shrugs.

"I'm big and scary, I guess."

"Sadly, no one gets to know the real you."

"Real funny, Buck."

"Man, if I approached the target with violent intentions, I'd take one look at your ugly mug behind him and scamper."

" _Really_  funny. I'm splitting a side here," Steve says stonily. "Now tell me what's this I hear from Nat about you and your mark getting close? Holding hands, she said?"

Bucky feels his face flush hot. "Fine, I'll stop teasing," he grunts. "Go away before people get suspicious."

To his surprise, there's a little chuckle from Steve before he leave to melt into the crowd, showing up a few moments later near the target. Bucky scowls in his direction, but can do nothing else.

The sun gets hot as the afternoon waxes. Bucky moves occasionally for a better vantage point; always with you in his view, and sometimes your father - as much as he trusts Steve, he doesn't trust the target. And looking away from the enemy never turns out well.

He was right in his earlier assessment - you  _do_  like people, and they like you back. He watches as you charm a snub-nosed Frenchman into smiling, a teenage girl into laughing, and even pet an overweight poodle on the verge of expiring from heat. The woman with the poodle on her lap simpers at you, but, for your credit - no matter how many connections you're making, Bucky notices that you haven't made a single promise. But they've tried - the lady with the poodle leave a heavy-handed hint that she would appreciate a dinner invitation to your father's house. You sidestep by claiming no control over who he invites, but that you will leave her name with him. The snub-nosed Frenchman wanted to know your father's plans for seagoing trade, but you politely claim ignorance.

In fact, the only person you seemed to listen to was the slender man, the candidate running against your father. To him you had nodded and listened, with an intelligent expression rather than a hidden one.

But what's that nagging in Bucky's chest? The irritation?

The party ends as the sun begins to descend. It's with relief that Bucky follows you back out to the front, opening the car door for you and slamming it maybe a bit to harshly. The drive back is silent. In the mirror, your eyes are closed. Exhausted.

His irritation is selfish.

Your steps are slow and dragging into your father's house, as if the efforts of the afternoon have worn you completely down. And maybe that's true. Bucky listens as you ask a butler to bring supper to your rooms. And then follows your plodding steps down the hall. He can see the slouched line of your shoulders. As soon as the hall is quiet, and he's certain there is no one else near - he steps a little faster to your side, and asks in a murmur,

"Are you alright?"

You lift your head, meeting his eyes for the first time since that morning, with a weary smile on your lips. Bucky's heart does a funny little beat in his chest, which he tries to ignore. Oh, and he should really stop looking at your mouth -

"I'm alright," you say softly. "It's...just tiring."

"I understand."

Silence. To your door, and Bucky hurries to open it for you. Not in the job description, but it seems like the right thing to do. He smiles as you whisper a 'thank you,' and pass by him.

"Who's the, um, other candidate?" he asks after you, before he can stop himself. You flop down on your bed, reaching down to unlace for sandals. Bucky drags his eyes back up.

"He is Mr. Azad. He works for the Department of Human Affairs as a clerk."

"Not exactly a stunning resume for a presidential candidate," Bucky frowns.

"He's the only one left," you say quietly, a sandal dangling from your fingers. "And that is  _because_  he has so little experience. My father does not consider him a true threat, so he is allowed to stay. Even with his outspoken policies against white collar crime."

"I see." Bucky's fingers are still on the door handle. Your eyes remain on him, a little unfathomable, but kind.

"Thank you, Bucky," you say after a moment. "For - for coming. For staying with me."

"Of course." His lips twist in a smile. "It's my job."

"I know. I know it's your job." Biting your lip, your eyes drop. "But...I felt safer knowing you were there today. I appreciate that."

Bucky is stunned into silence. All your poise and elegance - not a single show of discomfort - and yet you had been bolstered knowing he was there? Most people would feel otherwise.

"Well, you're welcome," he says. "Um, I'll be outside if you need me."

Another soft smile, this one maybe a little shy. "I know."

Bucky's ears are hot as he closes the door.


	4. Chapter 4

"Come on, Bucky - you can't say it's not suspicious!"

Bucky doesn't look up; it's past midnight in the downstairs kitchen again, with Sam finishing clean up again, and with Natasha hounding them again. Bucky had filled the team in about the activities of the last 36 hours; the evidence found, your information of your father, and what Steve had said. But apparently to Natasha, that's not good enough.

"It's hard to believe a grown woman who detests this life so much would stick around for it," Tasha continues, ignoring Bucky's growing irritation as he spoons up some leftover soup. Slouched in a chair across from him as Sam listens in, she doesn't stop. "She's an adult, Barnes - she could've left years ago if she wanted. Her father has no real use for her here, it's not like he has to keep her around."

"But she knows what he does," Sam interrupts. "He can't let all that information walk out. It's typical crime lord behavior. Haven't you seen any mafia movies?"

"Oh, please," Natasha brushes this off. "If she hates it as much as she says, she could've found a way."

"Not necessarily," Bucky mutters.

A pause. Then, "You're soft on her, Barnes. And that compromises the mission." Natasha's hard voice brokes no argument.

"Well, he hasn't done anything stupid about it yet," Sam points out.

"I'm not soft on her," Bucky snaps, and finally drags up his eyes to meet Tasha's fiery ones. "But we're tryin' to save her. A little care ain't so bad. She needs it, if she's gonna help us."

"Don't get attached," Natasha says coldly. "You know better."

He does. He should. His lips twisting in a scowl, Bucky drops the spoon back in the bowl and pushes his chair away from the table.

"Double check for us, yeah?" Natasha calls after him as he stands and grabs his jacket. "Make sure we're not gonna be the ones going to prison here."

Bucky skulks down the corridors; dimly lit for the middle of the night, and only passing one or two night guards. They don't question him - because it's usual that a day-shift guard stays late, or because the dark look on his face forbids questioning. The house is quiet. And alone, he can't deny the fairness of Natasha's albeit impolite accusations. But what use does Nat have for being polite in a situation like this?

Stopping in front of your closed door, Bucky chews on his lip for a moment, considering.

What's the worst that can happen? You work for your father and have been asked to trap the Avengers somehow; you unearth a gun and shoot Bucky, or force the entire team to surrender and thus begins a years-long legal battle before he or anyone else can go home.

It just doesn't seem likely. But a plan made just in case, Bucky taps his knuckles against the door, listening carefully. The rustle of bedsheets, and a hoarse,

"Bucky? Is that you?"

He twists the door handle, and steps inside. A final glance down the hall - no one watching. Perfect. He closes the door behind him, squinting in the dim light of your bedroom.

A ruffled and rumpled figure, sitting up in the bed with a yawn. "What's going on?" you ask, your voice beautifully raspy. No - he can't think you're beautiful or Natasha will have his hide. At least, not until he's sure of you.

"Sorry to bother you," Bucky says, a little stupidly as he tosses his jacket on a table, and takes a few tentative steps towards the bed. "I was just, uh - talking to the team."

You're rubbing the heel of your hand in your eyes. "How's the mission going?" you ask sleepily. Very polite, considering he'd woken you up. Makes Bucky feel even worse.

"It's going alright. We're just trying to put some puzzle pieces together."

"Yeah?" A tiny frown pinches your brows as your eyes fasten on him - Bucky swallows, standing awkwardly at the side of your bed. Then your lips twitch, and you pat the bed beside you. He sits stiffly, twisting his fingers together as nausea clenches his stomach. It's not fair to have to question you - but he has to. Natasha was right.

"Just wondering about you," he says softly, studying the curves and planes of your facial features. The moonlight from the open balcony doors makes your skin glow - why is he here, again? What was the question? Oh, yes. He swallows, and adds, "Why you're doing this."

You blink. "Doing this?"

"Yeah, the whole - going against your father."

"Oh." While taken aback, you don't appear offended by this. There's no change in pulse, or dilating of the pupils - and Bucky watches your reaction carefully. "This isn't a life I chose," you begin. "This man is my stepfather - and he killed my mother."

Bucky nearly jolts back in surprise.

"I mean, not murdered," you hurry to say. "But when he married her, he promised he would leave crime behind. But he broke that promise, and she...she became depressed. She hated what he did; how he treated people. And her. She became ill - and on her deathbed she tried to extract another promise from him, that he would stop for good this time - for my sake. And he agreed."

Riveted, Bucky stares as you wet your lip, the pink of your tongue darting out.

"But it only lasted about a day." You give a shrug. "And here we are."

"And you can't leave?" Bucky asks, a little raggedly.

You reply with a hollow laugh. "I tried - I started at a local college a few years ago, but Father removed me after only two semesters. He said there was too much unrest on campus...truthfully, there are many clubs against him and his crimes. I could not have attended them myself, otherwise I would have."

"You're very brave," Bucky says without thinking, as your brows lift.

"I am not," you reply. "Otherwise I could have done more. I could have done something before now."

"Yeah, that's what Natasha said," he starts, and seeing the immediate frown clouding your features, he bites his tongue. Literally.

"Natasha?" you ask sharply, and understanding dawns on your face. "She doesn't trust me, and yet she thinks to suspect me? She believes I am to betray you?"

"Well, not exactly, but - "

"And you think this?" Your biting question stalls Bucky, and he blinks stupidly.

"No, I don't, but - "

"But what, Bucky?" Crossing your arms in front of your chest, your eyes bore into his, and he gulps.

"We just had to make sure that you're not going to betray us," he says, as soothingly as he can. "It's a hazard of our job. Just making sure. You know? Filling out all the details."

"Fine, then," you say coolly. "Are you satisfied? If our acquaintance isn't enough, if my help isn't enough - can you even trust my word?"

"Yes," Bucky snaps. "Because I can smell a lie a mile away. I trust you, but Natasha doesn't have the same confidence, she's just looking out for us - "

"Oh, right -  _Natasha_ ," you say, lips curling. "Well, if she wishes to question me further, send her to me. You needn't be a messenger, Bucky."

His jaw is ticking. Your eyes are flashing fire - almost terrifyingly so. Perhaps he's been distracted by the beautiful qualities you emulate that he hasn't quite noticed the backbone of steel, the stubborn line of your chin. But here it is. There's more passion in you than you've revealed. From living in the shadow of such a stepfather? Probably. But Bucky drags his eyes away from your face, and stands stiffly.

"Sorry to bother you," he says again. "Good night."

"Good  _night_."

Bucky grabs his jacket, and shoulders through the door, closing it a tad too loudly behind him. He doesn't care. Keeping him off the cams is Nat's job, anyway. Give her something to do besides harass him.

He stalks back to the kitchen, to find Sam and Natasha conversing in low tones at the kitchen table. They glance up when Bucky enters, and he pries his clenched jaw apart to snap,

"She's with us. Didn't tell a single lie."

"That's good news," Sam says diplomatically.

"Chewed my head off though," Bucky adds indifferently, unbuttoning the top buttons of his white shirt with a yank. "Thanks for that, Nat. It was a lot of fun. Next time you want to question her, go yourself."

"I will," Natasha replies, her tone even.

"Well, I'm outta here. See you later. If I'm unlucky." And Bucky stomps to the back door to the patio, his heart twisting into all sorts of unnatural shapes as he heads into the black of night, to walk to the apartment in the city Stark had rented as base for the mission.

The night remains restless.

With very little rest under his belt, Bucky returns to the mansion house in the morning for shift change inspection (Lalk's obvious favorite time of the day), before being dismissed to his duties.

Regret still twists his stomach as he makes the trek towards your rooms. As he takes his place sitting outside the door, Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin as he hears Natasha hiss into the com in his ear,

"Go apologize to her, you lump."

"What?" he asks, out of the corner of his mouth.

"She and I had a talk last night after you left - just go apologize."

"Huh?"

"Are you deaf?" Nat gripes. "We worked things out. I trust her enough. Now do as I say or I'll - "

Bucky stops listening. He knows what Natasha can do, anyway. Clenching his jaw, he stands and gives a brisk knock on the door. A moment later, padding footsteps come, and the door is opened.

For once, you aren't smiling. A lifted brow, instead.

"Can I come in?" Bucky asks, after an uncomfortable moment. You give a curt nod, and he trails inside after you. The door closes with a click.

"I'm sorry," he blurts, watching as you stride out to the open terrace. "About last night, I mean, I - "

You glance back over your shoulder, wigging a finger in his direction - to come. Bucky hurries forward.

"Natasha came to talk to me last night," you tell him, settling in a lounge chair in the sun. Bucky stares. "She says she put you up to questioning me."

"She - I suppose, yeah, but - I could've handled it better. I could've handled her better - and you."

"It's fine." Peering up at him as you tap your fingers against the cover of a book, you bite your lip. Then, "I am sorry too, Bucky. I should not have reacted the way I did. Natasha's concerns were -  _are_  - understandable. I should be accountable for my position on this mission."

Startled, Bucky lowers himself to sit on the footrest of your chair, unable to look away from you.

"Perhaps some of my anger has stemmed from jealousy," you add after a moment.

"Um - what?"

"Jealousy," you repeat patiently. "Of Natasha."

"Of  _Tasha_? Why - "

"Because she is the Black Widow? Because she is free? Because she is capable and adored, and I am trapped?" Your suggestions are coupled with a stillness of expression on your face, as if to conceal something. "Jealous that you trust her?" you add, more quieter now.

"There - there's nothing to be jealous of," Bucky says, unsure of what else to say. Your eyes bore into his for a moment longer.

"Will you forgive me?" you ask finally, and there's a hint of shyness in your voice. Bucky blinks.

"Of course. Yeah, I will - will you forgive me?"

A smile, at last - crinkles your eyes. "Of course, Bucky. I am in your debt for even responding to my plea for help."

"Oh, well," Bucky shrugs this off, feeling embarrassed. "Stark's to thank for that."

"And yet I haven't seen Stark," you point out. "It is  _you_ helping me."

Bucky chortles. "Trust me. He'll want all your thanks. Don't worry about me, sweetheart."

A heart-wrenching moment, and he meets your startled eyes. He nearly bites his tongue again, but suddenly a beaming smile lights your face.

"I am glad we can be friends again," you say as his stomach knots. The sun is making your skin glow - much like the moonlight the night before; totally different, but no less...alluring.

"Er, yeah. Me too. It'll make the mission easier," Bucky says with a ragged laugh. Awkwardly he runs his fingers through his loose air, glancing away from you - it's easier that way, too. Not to look.

"I had an idea," you pronounce, tone changing briskly. "For Moreau."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. I thought perhaps today we could visit the school where he worked."

"It's a good idea," Bucky agrees. "But how long has it been since he's worked there?"

You shrug. "A decade or more. But it's worth a shot, since we don't have him here."

"Fair enough. Better than sitting around, anyway."

Another laugh, and Bucky can't help grinning as he admires how your expression lights up. "And I thought my life was boring," you tease. "I can't imagine how dull it must be to sit around all day."

"Hey, at least you give me something to do," Bucky teases back. "Shall I call the car around, miss?" he exaggerates an accent, which doubles your laughter.

"You needn't! I can call for a car myself." Your giggles subdue, and Bucky gazes into your eyes as you bite your lip again. "I feel a little bad you're having to do those things for me."

"It's part of the cover," he says lightly. "It's not so bad. Anyway, when we came over here we thought you were much younger - I thought I'd be stuck babysitting a My Little Pony fanatic. Be playing beauty parlor, that sort of thing."

A startled moment, and the more laughter bursts from your lovely lips. Bucky stares. He can't really help himself - and hopefully you won't notice, anyway. His flesh palm is getting a little sweaty - he presses it into the cool metal of his other hand, trying to steady his breath.

"I didn't realize my handwriting was that bad," you say at last, swinging your legs over to stand. "I suppose I deserve that. Come on, Bucky. Let's visit my old school."


	5. Chapter 5

The ride into the city is a sunny and pleasant one. Bucky is delegated to the front seat beside the driver, but he's keeping a close eye on you through the rear-view mirror. You send him a smile, and he promptly looks away.

He's acting a bit strange, isn't he? But maybe you are, too. It's more trouble than it's worth, trying to disguise how Bucky quickens your heartbeat, makes your stomach flutter. He's been enhanced with super-serum, hasn't he? So he can hear your body's every response to him? To his voice, his smile?

How  _embarrassing_. The last thing you or he needs right now is a silly crush. And yet...that doesn't seem to be stopping you.

Maybe it's because you haven't had a boyfriend in so long. A crime-lord stepfather seems to prevent that sort of thing.

Leaning your head against the tilted window, you watch the cobblestone sidewalks, the tile roofs and stone buildings, bright with flowers and blue and red painted shutters. The top-of-the-line car is nearly silent - you can hear the driver's breathing. And distantly, from the open window of a villa, the sound of a lonesome violin. Absently you tap your fingers on your knee.

The school is in the heart of the city. Only twenty minutes or so, and the car is parked as Bucky climbs out, opening your door for you as a bodyguard should. You keep your eyes averted from him, as you should. Goosebumps break out on your arm nearest Bucky's tall, solid form - as they shouldn't.

The gates are opened for you. They know you, and they know your stepfather.

The headmistress has hurried out, smoothing down her hair as soon as you mount the top step to the main doors, Bucky on your heels. She does a clumsy sort of half-bow, making you wince internally, and you're quick to take her hand in greeting.

"Madam, we were not expecting you - " she stammers a little. Not out of real honor for you - but terror of your father. You're used to it, but still you sigh a little to yourself.

"Good morning," you say politely. "I was wondering if I might tour the school. I wish to see that the children are well, and if there is anything you need."

Being patron has its advantages. Showing up without warning and being allowed to do what you want is one of them.

"Of course, madam. This way."

The chatter of the headmistress is simple, but easy to respond to. Wandering down the dim halls, with the cool blue tile walls and the subdued sounds of classes in session - you lets your eyes flicker around. It's not until your little group has arrived at the north wing that you clasp your hands behind your back, pointing a finger towards the old office of Mr. Moreau. For Bucky.

The tour continues.

"Would Madam care for a cup of tea?" the headmistress asks, now smiling less nervously, now that the tour is over. The school is in fine shape, apart from a few crumbling stone steps in the courtyard. You give a beaming smile.

"Yes, of course. Thank you."

"Will my office suffice?"

"Yes, thank you." You turn to accompany her back down the corridor, but turn at the last minute with a little frown. Bucky's eyes are on your face already. "Please fetch my jacket from the car, if you would," you tell him dismissively. He gives a curt nod, and leaves the way you'd come.

Perfect.

Bucky's thoughts, embroiled with the mission and Moreau and the upcoming election, somehow find their way back to you as he walks briskly back to the office you'd pointed him to. Your poise, your patience, your cleverness - really, it's almost frightening. Then again, you'd learned from your stepfather, probably. The man doesn't know how much he's lost in alienating you. You'd make a formidable ally to a crime lord. Natasha was right to worry.

The office is locked, but empty - it takes less than five seconds to pick the lock, and Bucky slips inside.

A small room. A single window, wit the late morning sun burning warm. A tidy desk, tile walls, a wooden wardrobe. Mounted shelves.

If Bucky was a schoolteacher guilty of a crime, how would he hide the evidence? His living quarters would be too obvious - that would be the first place searched in the case of an investigation. No, the office was the best bet. At least, certainly one worth trying.

Bucky sniffs the air. Nothing unusual. Standing perfectly still, he tilts his head to the side, focusing...the tiniest sliver of air is working its way into the office from around a tile near the floor, back in the corner nearest the window. He takes a step over, crouching low as he puts out his flesh fingers to feel...definitely a draft. A quick tap reveals that there's no concrete behind those few tiles.

He tugs a knife from an ankle holster beneath his trousers. Working fast, Bucky scrapes away some mortar as it falls to the ground in a pile of white dust. Finally he pries away a tile, accidently cracking another one, to reveal…

A little hole. Of course. Not very large, but crammed  _full_. Papers, and what looks to be the local currency.

Time's running fast. Bucky leaves the money, poking it back in the hole and grabs as many of the papers as he can. Then the tile is shoved back into place. No good. They'll know someone was searching. Hopefully there aren't cameras - he'll have to send Natasha a quick message.

Biting his lip, Bucky stands, glancing around - and drags a little table with a flower vase over to the corner. Good enough. The papers are shoved in his pockets, where it's likely no one will notice. And the halls are still quiet when he tiptoes out of the office.

Well done.

When he returns to the headmistress's office a short time later, your jacket over his arm - your cup of tea is finished, and you stand to farewell the headmistress with a smile. Hands are shaken, and you turn to leave, your lovely eyes flickering to Bucky's face for a infinitesimal moment. He tries not to smile, honestly - but there it is, and quickly you look away.

The drive back to the mansion is silent. Except for the suspicious crinkling of Bucky's pockets when he moves - so he stops moving.

A short walk inside, a meander up to your rooms, and you're halfway through your door Bucky clears his throat, and you pause. The housemaids are mopping that corridor - so he can't say everything he wants to.

"Here," he says, and pulls the crumpled mass of papers from his pocket. "I just grabbed it - could be nothing."

Taking the papers, you shake a little dust off - and glance back up at Bucky with a lovely smile. "I doubt that. Thank you, Bucky. You were wonderful."

"Not as wonderful as you." The words slip out smoothly, before Bucky can stop them, and he feels his ears burn. But you merely gaze at him a moment more, say nothing - and then disappear into your room.

Phew.

The day wanes. Bucky sits outside your door, listening to the occasional crinkle of paper beyond - of your pacing, of your sighs and catches of breath. After the floors are mopped, ladders are brought in and the tall ceilings dusted, and light scones brought down to be cleaned. It makes him jittery; being watched, sort of, and not being able to join you in your room to help.

"The cleaning crew's shift ends in an hour," Natasha's bored voice says in Bucky's ear sometime after supper has been brought into you. The lights are all on, and the mansion is starting to quiet. At last. Only the paintings in the hall are being dusted, and Bucky glances askancely at the housemaids.

"It's because of the election," Natasha continues, since Bucky can't reply. "The target wants his house spick and span for his inevitable win."

Bucky suppresses a growl.

"Hopefully it won't come to that. Hey, Sam's shift is off early, and I've looped the cameras outside our girl's room so she can have freer movement. We're gonna hit up some places in town, ask some questions. Wanna come? You can nod or shake your head; I can see you."

Bucky hesitates. Shifting awkwardly in his hard chair, he gives a shrug.

"Whatever," Natasha says. "We'll wait back at base for a while. Shoot us a text if you decide."

A click signifies that Nat has turned off her end. Bucky runs his tongue over his teeth, his knee jiggling uncharacteristically as he watches from the corner of his eye, the housemaids chattering as they bundle up rags and supplies to walk wearily away. A few minutes later, and all is silent.

Finally.

Natasha had said an hour, though - so Bucky holds tight. A butler eventually comes down the hall, and enters your room to fetch your empty dinner tray away.

The clock chimes nine. Too soon. Ten. Ten-fifteen. The mansion is silent now to its very bowels - ten-thirty. Bucky's shift had ended at ten, but Lalk has not come to question him. He'd probably gone home. Good.

Ten-forty-five, and Bucky reaches behind him to tap his knuckles on the door. A moment later, and the door creaks open.

Finally.

Your room is dim, only a lamp or two on, with the balcony doors thrown open to allow in the cool night air and shafts of moonlight. You close the door behind him, flashing a smile as you wander back to your bed, where the stolen papers have been laid out carefully.

"I think I'm finally making sense of it," you say quietly, sitting cross-legged on the duvet. Bucky yanks his tie from his throat, breathing in deeply for the first time in hours. Your flowery scent is thick, but nicer than all the cleaning chemicals - so much nicer, in fact, that he can't help smiling.

"There are some coded messages," you explain, tapping a few of the papers. "But mostly these are minutes from school board meetings from fifteen or more years ago. Before I ever lived here, even. And a few pages that look as though they were torn from an account book." These last pages are lined, with numbers scribbled in tallies in fading ink. You glance up at Bucky. "Moreau's name pops up again and again in the school board meetings - he was lobbying for certain changes. Changes that I can be fairly certain my father bribed him to lobby. No self-respecting teacher would lobby to limit teaching material."

"Ah," Bucky says. Absently he perches on the edge of the bed, picking up one of the accounts pages before whistling low. "Paid well," he mutters. "There was money where these papers were hidden - what do you make of that?"

"Well, Moreau left the country," you say. "If he didn't take the money, my guess is he either got cold feet or was forced to leave. But if my father's men ran him out of town, Moreau would have taken the money - or my father would have retrieved it. It seems most likely he regretted his actions and could not take the money in good conscience."

Bucky slants you a smile, admiring how your eyes sparkle in the dim light. "You've thought a lot about this," he says.

"I've been here all day," you say, laughing a little. "I certainly had the time. I wished you could have helped."

"Sorry - there were cleaning crews, and - "

But you put out a hand to stop him, touch landing lightly on his knee. Your smile is soft, and Bucky swallows thickly. "I know," you tell him.

"And I guess you didn't need me, anyway," Bucky manages to say, a little shakily as he drops the paper back on the bedspread. "You're smart enough to do this on your own."

"Not entirely." Your tongue wets your lips, and Bucky tears his gaze away. It's just because he's been sitting in a chair most of the day, bored out of his mind. He shouldn't be having feelings for the target's daughter - he knows better. Just like Natasha said. He knows better. He  _knows_ better.

"So, uh...what's the plan for tomorrow?" Bucky's voice cracks in the silence. He forces himself to look back at you, to not see your lips - or eyes - or anything - but your expression is so uncertain, so tender that his throat goes dry. You blink up at him.

"Well, my father is hosting a gala to precede the election," you say quietly. "That is only the evening. Is there anywhere else we need to go, or anything else we can do to further the investigation?"

Bucky thinks for a moment, and then pulls his phone from his pocket. "I'll send these to Stark. He's still searching for Moreau - maybe this will help. He'll probably have suggestions of what we can do." Picture by picture, he makes his way through the documents. You pile them neatly when he's done, and after he puts his phone away you lean over to tuck them away in a nightstand.

"Do you think," you start to say, straightening yourself in cross-legged position, too close to Bucky for comfort. "Is this simply a lucky string we are pulling on? Everything is coming together to well not to be suspicious, I think."

"Nah - I think that like any crime lord, your father has plenty of evidence for his crimes sitting around. We could have pulled on another string had been just as successful, I think."

"Like the stolen art," you suggest, beaming a smile. Bucky chortles.

"Yeah, like that. Or the illegal immigrants working on his staff."

Your brows raise. "Really?"

"Oh, sure. Those sorts always bring in cheap help," Bucky shrugs. "The cleaning crew worked way beyond national unionized hours today, and didn't take any breaks."

Your brows crease, and you bite your lip. Bucky tries not to look - and fails. "Oh," you say softly. "I didn't know."

"Well, you can't know everything," Bucky teases lightly - he misses your smile. But the one you favor him with is strained, and sad.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the right thing," you whisper, so softly that he has to tilt his head towards you to hear. "Father hasn't been cruel to me. Quite indulgent, actually, all things considered - but this thing isn't about me. It's about the people here, those he takes advantage of, that he pays off or makes disappear...I can't make it about me. I'm the only one that can do this, and I have to do it for them."

"That makes sense," Bucky says hoarsely. His head his still nearing yours - why is that? Why hasn't he stopped? Why haven't you stopped him? Why does the moonlight make your eyes shine like stars, and why do you catch your breath? Should he be moving away? Definitely. Probably. Maybe.

Without thinking he lifts his hands, cupping your jaw as your eyes flutter shut. Not a sign of distaste. Only a few millimeters further, and your lips - those  _lips he can't stop looking at and he can't stop thinking about ever not even when he tries_  - are as sweet as they look.

A little vibrating moan sticks in your throat, and Bucky suppresses a groan as he kisses you again, your lips parting under his and beckoning him in with more warmth, more sweetness. Are those your hands on his chest? Must be. And tugging him closer? Your fingers, tangling in his hair?

Bucky is certain he's transcended beyond real life.

His blood is rushing, his skin tingling where your fingertips scrape along his scalp. It's getting hard to breathe, but he doesn't care - he wants  _you_ , he wants your taste on every bit of his tongue, and the sounds you make as he delves in further are worth now uncomfortable he's getting, how awkwardly he's positioned, half-leaning over you, half-off the bed.

Then, suddenly, you fall backwards into the pillows, and your tight hold on his jacket drags Bucky with you - he doesn't mind one bit, keeping his lips latched to yours as his knee parts your legs. Definitely harder to breathe - the very air is thick and heady, and his brain is growing fuzzy, and the soft skin at the waistband of your shorts breaks into goosebumps as he runs his flesh hand over your stomach.

Another moan from you, louder this time, vibrating into Bucky's mouth. He pulls away, but only slightly - to nibble soft, eager kisses along your jaw and throat. You're squirming beneath him, whimpering for breath, or more, or something, and his fingers clench into the curve of your waist. His suit is very hot - sweat is beading along his neckline, but he ignores it. The soft, sweet-tasting flesh of your neck wants to be marked, to prove that  _yes_ , Bucky was there, he's been in your arms, you'd welcomed him there, and he's the damned luckiest bastard in the world to know you, to taste you -

A mark? He can't leave a mark.

Bucky's train of thought stalls, and derails. Shuddering, he crouches back on his knees, breathing harshly as he stares at you - your dark eyes, your lips plump from kissing, the skew of your shirt, the fluttering breaths as you meet his gaze boldly.

"Sorry," he mutters, and starts to climb off the bed - but your hand catches his, and he freezes. Your fingers are very hot on his metal hand, and he stares as you sit yourself on your knees, eye level with him.

"Don't be sorry, Bucky," your lovely voice is like every beautiful sound he's ever heard at once. And you're smiling. Why had he stopped kissing you, again?

"Sorry?" he repeats, stupidly.

"Not about this." You shrug. "It should have remained professional, perhaps...but do not be sorry. I do not regret it."

Bucky swallows thickly, feeling as though he's drowning in your eyes. "I don't regret it, either," he murmurs. Your smile broadens.

"Go," you say softly. "We can talk in the morning."

Bucky nods numbly. Talk? Yes, talking is good. Right.

"About the mission."

Oh. That kind of talk.

"Good night, then," he says, trying to appear nonchalant as he finally stands, and you drop his hand. Your smile crinkles your eyes, and his stomach does a funny turn.

"Good night, Bucky."


	6. Chapter 6

There's an unaccountable nervousness as you wait for Bucky to arrive the next morning. Well, not really unaccountable - totally accountable. Because he'd kissed you last night. Because he'd kissed you, just like you'd wanted, like you've  _been_ wanting probably since the second time you saw him. The simple, overplayed memory of his blue eyes still makes you warm all over; remembering the hot dryness of his lips, his hands everywhere, bringing your body to life…

A knock sounds on the door fifteen minutes before Bucky's shift is supposed to start. Your heart pounding, you rise from an early breakfast on your balcony and try to walk calmly over to open the door - but you can't stop the enormous smile on your face.

Bucky stands in the doorway. His gaze is intent on your face, but his expression is otherwise unreadable.

"Hi," you say, a little breathlessly.

His lips curl into a hesitant smile. "Hi. Reporting for duty."

"Duty?" You lift your brows. "There is nothing to do until the gala this evening, unless by chance we have found our man in Paris?"

Bucky shakes his head.

"And have you eaten breakfast?"

Your question appears to take him off guard - Bucky blinks, and then says in a mutter, "Er - no."

You smile. "Then come inside and share mine."

He blinks again, his ears turning that distinctively shade of red again. Reaching out to clasp his hand, you tug him inside, and close the door behind him.

"Look, about last night - " Bucky starts to say, as you lead him to the sunny balcony.

"You said you did not regret it," you remind him.

"I did. I don't, I mean. Um - I only…"

As you pause, glancing back him, you watch as he runs his fingers through his hair, his lips twisting.

"We have a mission here," Bucky says at last. "Can we - um, put things on hold until it's over?"

A bright bubble of hope forms in your chest. "Of course."

"I mean, I need to focus, and you're not really great for that, I keep getting distracted and stuff…" Bucky rambles on. "I mean, that kiss last night - pretty amazing. But I want to make sure we see this mission through first. And that you're safe. Before we get involved or anything."

"You are very wise," you tease lightly. "But we can still have breakfast, yes? As friends? Or need it be only as partners for the mission?"

Bucky's eyes are very pale blue in the sunlight. He grins, finally, and the set of his shoulders relax. "Friends," he says firmly. You let go of his hand at last, wandering over to sit at the little table you'd been eating from.

"Then sit, my friend," you say with a smile. "Coffee or tea?"

"Oh, um - tea, I guess."

He sits down as you pour, distracted by his handsome form sprawling in the chair after about a heartbeat of awkwardness. Bucky smiles, very broadly, as you pass him a cup. His fingers brush against yours for the smallest moment - and riveted by his gaze, you nearly drop the cup before jolting back to reality.

"I wonder," he says after a moment. "Is it appropriate for someone to tell their - erm, friend, that she is beautiful this morning?"

Your face feels hot. Glancing up from the croissant you'd been mangling, you bite your lip to keep from smiling too much. "It seems appropriate," you allow. "Though you may have to explain to your friend why you do not think she is beautiful every morning. Or any time, really."

Bucky's laugh rings, and your skin prickles with pleasure.

"Tell me what you spoke of with Natasha," Bucky says out of the blue, a few moments later. Coughing slightly on too-hot tea, to meet the intense stare of his eyes across the table.

"Oh. The night we spoke? Of whether I am going to sell you out?"

Bucky's eye twitches. "Yeah. That."

"Well, she only asked the same questions as you, albeit less kindly," you say with a shrug. "I told her the truth. She agreed to trust me until the end of the mission, but if I intend to set myself up as the leader of this country with the help of the Avengers…"

"Huh?"

"Which I am  _not_ ," you clarify with a smile. "Do you know, this is not the nation of my birth? My mother brought me here when she married my stepfather. I am fortunate to have dual citizenship. When this is over, I want to go  _home_."

"Home," Bucky repeats, and his expression is, for an infinitesimal moment, utterly still. Then he smiles. "Do you have family there?"

"Yes; my mother's mother. I was not allowed to return to her after my mother's death, unfortunately."

"Your stepfather keeps you around for a reason," Bucky says, spearing a slice of pineapple on the end of a butter knife. "It's obvious. People adore you. They don't adore him. You're good press."

You sniff. "Well, that's absurd. I'm not trying to put myself in charge."

"But if you did, you'd have a heck of a lot more luck." Bucky's eyes are sparkling. "That's why your stepdad doesn't give you more freedom."

"You've thought about this," you say after a moment. It's startling to consider. That he's thought about this enough to come to such a conclusion.

"I have," he admits, and his smile is a little rueful. "I'm allowed to think about my friends, yeah?"

"Maybe not that much," you tease. Bucky chortles, but drops the topic.

Breakfast turns into lunch. With the sea sparkling beneath the sun, the blue skies stretching on endlessly in the distance, and the hot perfume of flowers wafting around - it's a beautiful day. Especially with Bucky there to share it. Beautiful things kept to oneself are selfish. To share them? A thousand times more joyful.

He's quick to tell stories of his youth. Most are silly, some are heartfelt - such as the time his grandfather sold an heirloom gold pocket watch to feed his family during the Great Depression. Each story is a layer, peeling back little bits of Bucky until you realize that you're sitting there, across from him, and he's not the Winter Soldier, or Captain America's sidekick, or Steve Rogers's childhood friend - he just  _is_. He's all of that, but more than it, too.

Sometime he'd picked up your hand to hold it, and you hadn't protested (after all, friends are for affection, are they not?), and as you study his face as he concludes telling you of the time he accidentally emptied dishwater out a window and it landed on a policeman - you smile, a little goofily, as Bucky's thumb strokes over your knuckles.

"Blamed it on my sister," he confesses, his bright eyes twinkling. "Figured she wouldn't get arrested for it. But I would."

"How old were you, again?"

"Er - nine."

"I do not think nine year old boys are usually arrested for dumping dishwater on policeman, no matter how voracious they be," you tease.

"Oh, but you didn't see the fellow!" Bucky laughs. "He was easily six-foot-six, and had a handlebar mustache at  _least_  as wide as the handlebar of a motorbike. And dripping wet - golly, he was terrifying! Even my ma was taken aback when he knocked on the door."

"And did your sister get arrested?" you can't help asking.

"'Course not! She gave the man a handkerchief she'd embroidered herself, and he was so touched that he only blubbered and walked away. Had daughters of his own, see."

"Very cute."

"So you have to admit - my plan was flawless. If I'd admitted it was me, he would've whooped my ass - "

A knock on your bedroom door cuts off Bucky's words. Jolting, you twist in your seat to hear a housemaid's voice through the door.

"Madam - I have your gown pressed for tonight - "

"Oh, I forgot," you mutter to yourself. Bucky drops your hand, leaping to his feet to assume a very stately, very solemn position against the balcony door. But he winks, all the same, and your face is hot as you call aloud, "Come in!"

The door opens, and you hurry to your feet. The maid brings in your dress to hang in the bathroom, and as you follow her anxiously - you don't miss her eyes going to Bucky on the balcony.

"Shall I throw him out, madam?" the maid asks fiercely.

"He is scoping out any threats from the balcony," you lie easily. "Father's orders. But thank you."

The maid nods curtly, and leaves. Your hands are shaking and damp - you wring them together, striding back to Bucky. The barest smile twitches his lips.

"You should go," you say regretfully. "Hopefully Natasha's camerawork will keep us from looking suspicious."

"Natasha's good at that," Bucky agrees. Then his smile broadens, his stance relaxing as he runs his fingers through his. "Thanks for - um, breakfast."

Unable to stop yourself, you giggle. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

"Anytime."

A hesitating, sort of electrifying moment - when Bucky's eyes meet yours, and the memory of his kiss the night before makes your legs tremble.

"See you soon?" he asks lightly.

You smile. "Very soon."

Very soon is a little over an hour later. A scrub down, a hair stylist, and a make up artist later - you're not feeling entirely yourself when you leave your rooms. But that's not exactly at the forefront of your mind. Bucky is. He jumps up from his chair when you close the door behind you, his eyes on you and suddenly very, very wide.

"Hi," he says after a moment. "You, um - ready?"

"I am ready," you say, a little ruefully. "I have been  _made_ ready."

"Well, you look - beautiful. Really beautiful."

Your face feels hot, and biting back a smile, you reply, "And you look handsome, Bucky."

"In my security suit?" His eye twitches in confusion.

"You probably always look handsome," you add, and boldly, reach up to straighten his formal bowtie. "Some people are just lucky."

"I am lucky," Bucky confirms, a smile wrinkling his eyes. "Because I get to escort the prettiest dame to the shindig tonight. Even if I'm not her date."

You can't help laughing - and hope that no one else is around. "You're too nice," you tell him at last, starting down the hallway towards the ballroom with a final look over your shoulder. He's smiling, and his next words are low - meant just for you.

"Actually, I don't think I'm nice enough."

Electric currents seem to be running through your body. Bucky, so close to you but way too far - every step is an ache, a yearning, and pleading want to have him touch you again - even if just to hold your hand, or better yet - to kiss you like he had last night, full of passion and belonging, making you feel as though your heart had a place with him. That he'd keep it safe. He'd keep  _you_  safe.

Is your smile too wide? Perhaps. Entering the ballroom takes some courage - but with Bucky behind you, it's easier to find tonight. Nodding graciously to a busboy, you take a flute of champagne, and step into the glittering lights and sharp perfume of society.

So many people to greet. So many hands to shake. So many smiles to be forced, replies to be made, vague but encouraging remarks regarding the election tomorrow - tomorrow? Is it tomorrow already? - you'd forgotten. But no one else has. Father is making his rounds, strutting like a cock as if he's already won the election. Which he very nearly has.

_Let Tony Stark find Moreau…_

Chandeliers sparkle warm golden light on the walls, and the hired band is soft and jazzy. Your face hurts from smiling. There are painful twists and tugs in your chest, from the fear you see in some eyes, and glee in others.

Empty flute on a tray. A tap on your shoulder, a smile utterly unreal. A dance? Of course. You'd be happy to. A lie, thick in your throat, but it comes out, nonetheless.

Whatever his name is. He's wearing a black suit like everyone else; his hands are slender and soft like most politicians. His expression is blank - at least he's not vicious. He's a fine dancer, too. But he holds you too close. There are too many couples swaying on the dance floor. The band is too near. The saxophone too shrill. Your heartbeat too fast. Clutching into the stranger's shoulder, you peer over his shoulder, trying not to inhale his cologne. Your head is pounding - too much champagne? You'd barely had any. Too much gold, too much stench...

Your wandering eyes find Bucky, standing guard near a door. His eyes are on you. Catching your breath, a sudden responsive leap in your chest stalls your panic, replacing it with...with Bucky. Bucky. Safe. His eyes, glinting in the lights from the chandelier - safe. His posture, directed towards you, attention on  _you_  - safe.

The stern line of Bucky's lips twitch. A brow lifts, and his eyes flit dismissively to the back of the head of your partner, as if to say,  _"You want me to take care of this schmuck?"_

You bite your lips together to keep from giggling aloud. With a real smile on your face now, the party suddenly seems very far away - dance partner aside, it could only be you and the pull of Bucky's soft gaze in the room. Even just his eyes make you feel so  _alive;_  the pitter-patter of your heart racing, the anticipation of just being with him thrumming from your head to your toes. When? When? When?

A scattering of applause breaks you from your partner, and startled to see yourself surrounding by smiling faces, you clap along without thinking. The band is taking a bow, and your partner gives you a cordial farewell before moving on. Had you ever caught his name? Doesn't matter.

It's nearing midnight - with Father deep in discussion with a minister from another country (who you've seen around before - corrupt as they come), you meander to the side of the ballroom where Bucky is standing. Deep breaths. You catch his gaze for a heart-rending moment, then turn to face the party. He's only ten feet away, though it may as well be ten miles.

The back of your neck feels hot. The entire room is hot, more like - but the warmth you feel from Bucky is a thousand times better. Not suffocating.

You turn on your heels, making for the door. Bucky starts, but quickly reaches over to open it for you, and sucking in a breath, you leave the glitter behind for the cool dim lights of the hallway.

"You okay?" Bucky asks, as the door closes behind him. He's keeping up with you, barely a half-step behind.

"I'm fine," you say automatically. "I - I'm tired."

"Did that guy get handsy with you? Want me to beat him up?"

A choked laugh escapes you. "He didn't, Bucky. Don't worry. I appreciate your enthusiasm, though."

The north hallway is empty - thankfully so. Slowing your stride, you take another steadying breath before turning slightly. Bucky's eyes are on your face already, intent - and without thinking you reach over to grasp his hand in yours. His flesh palm is warm, and he squeezes back.

"Thank you," you say.

"For what?"

"Everything." You stop outside your door, fumbling for a moment as you twist the handle. It swings open, and you pause, one foot through.

Bucky is staring down at you, his expression taut but full of...something. It's half-hidden, but spilling through as if no effort of his can conceal his feelings entirely. Standing on your tip-toes, you place a hand on his jaw to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Good night, friend," you murmur. A hesitating, electrifying moment - you stay close, breathing in his musky, spicy smell - clearing your nose of expensive perfumes and alcohol. Then his hand is tracing up your waist, hot even through the fabric of your dress - until it cups your cheek, tilting your head back to meet your eyes. His thumb traces your bottom lip, probably smearing lipstick, but you don't care. His eyes are riveting, blue and hot and welcoming. You'd drown in them, if you could.

_Put things on hold. Put things on hold._

The memory of those words come crashing back. No matter how much you want to invite him in, to have him stay...no matter how his expression indicates that he would agree in a heartbeat.  _Put things on hold._

Chuckling softly, you sink back. Bucky blinks.

"Er, good night," he says roughly. "Um, I'll be here early tomorrow. Election day."

Election day. Right. You nod stiffly, clasping your hands together as if your own touch is a substitute for Bucky's. It isn't. And as he continues to stand rigidly in the dim light of the hallway, you take a breath to brace yourself.

"Yes. Tomorrow."


	7. Chapter 7

Blinking in the bright sun, you turn away from the clicking cameras as you step down the stone steps from city hall, where ballots are being cast, to where the car is parked. It's warm, and people are pressing close - only Bucky's hand, pressed into your back, keeps you steady.

The photographers stay away, thankfully. Perhaps it's a shred of decency for you on a difficult day. Perhaps it's Bucky, and the scowl you'd seen earlier when he'd sent a reporter scurrying away. Most likely the latter.

Without realizing it, you lean slightly more towards him. He's safety. The world is not.

The car is hot. The air conditioning hot. The sun is coming through the tinted windows, hot. The driver pulls away from the curb, and the distant murmurs of the electoral coverage fades away. You let out a deep breath, and lean your head back against the seat. What you wouldn't give to have Bucky hold your hand…

But you have to content yourself with knowing he's in the seat in front of you.

Back at the mansion, things are in a flurry - people everywhere; employees and constituents, champagne flowing. With Bucky steady behind you, you walk through the front doors, and blink at the news teams hovering in the foyer. Mr. Lalk is there, looking frazzled and a bit angry as he tries to usher them in.

"The press conference is to be held in the study. Follow me! No flash photography, please. House tours can be conducted later - "

You don't care. Turning away from the crows of people, you wave away a butler with a tray of liquor, and walk steadily on towards your rooms. A sick feeling, having started during the night, is twisting your stomach and making your hands clammy. The first attempt to open the door handle doesn't work - and as you swallow back hot tears, Bucky's arm snakes around you, and pushes the door open.

"Thank you," you murmur, and step inside. He stays behind you, and after he closes the door you let loose a sigh that has been building for hours, collapsing in a chair near the balcony. Your head hurts. Your eyes shut. Pinching them shut, you rub your temples as Bucky's soft footsteps come close.

"Hey. You okay?"

The enveloping warmth of his flesh hand tugs down yours from covering your eyes. Blinking, you meet Bucky's bright eyes. He's crouching in front of you, a shy sort of smile on his lips.

"Yes, and no." Before you can stop it, a sigh. "You know."

"I know, sweetheart. It'll be over soon."

Numbly you nod. As his eyes stay on yours, his metal hand curls around your clasped hands, lending a chill that makes goosebumps break out along your arms. But you don't pull away.

"Thank you," you tell him. "For - for your support. It feels silly to say...but you mean a lot to me, Bucky. That you've been here...that you're so kind to me…" A lump is forming in your throat - it's hard to push away the memories of how many friends you've lost over the years; all the loneliness and isolation you've endured. Would it end? Could it end? The election - the Avengers - the investigation - Moreau -

Your head throbs.

"Hey. It's okay." Bucky's flesh thumb is tracing warm little circles on your knuckles. "Natasha told me this morning that Stark's on his way. He has...something. She couldn't say what. I wish I could have told you earlier," he adds, with a rueful smile. "It's been too busy around here."

You laugh, dryly. "I know." Without thinking, you tug a hand from his firm grip. Gently you push away some hair that has fallen on his cheeks, your heart beating a little funny as a flush of red lights his skin. With those pesky hairs tucked behind his ear, you smile - and then nearly regret it. It had been too intimate a touch, he wouldn't -

"Hey," Bucky says, his rougher now as he leans forward slightly. " **I might not get another chance to say this**."

"Okay."

"Stark'll be here soon, and I know things have been hard and everything, and I can't stop thinking about the other night - "

Neither can you. Biting your lip, you strain to listen as his voice quickens, stumbling over the words -

"I really admire you and think you're great, and all that you've done - I can't imagine how brave you've had to be. It's...amazing. And you're stunning. So wonderful. And I - "

Bucky is drowned out by the wail of sirens. Sirens? Forgetting whatever he was about to say, you stand, rushing for the door as the sirens get louder - in the hallway, a couple of housemaids are huddled together, whispering in a panic. Wide-eyed looks at you, and they turn their backs to you.

More sirens. More shouts. If only your terrace overlooked the courtyard instead of the sea…

With your heart hammering in your chest, you glance back over your shoulder - Bucky is right behind you, his mouth pressed together in a hard line as he gaze settles on you. Then his hand is firm on your forearm.

"Don't go anywhere without me," he says, tone broking no argument. You nod, numbly. Then he jerks his head towards the general direction of the noise. "Shall we?"

But you don't say anything. Heart pounding a hundred miles an hour, you rush through the marble halls, vision fuzzing as you see - black uniforms outside your father's office. Not of his bodyguards. You stop short, breathing hard - and stare. Bucky is a half step behind you.

"Is Tony Stark in there?" Bucky asks - one of the guards gives a clipped nod. "He'll want us."

A moment of murmurs - and the guards step aside, one pulling open the gilded gold doors -

Instead of the usual sea breeze of Father's office, it's the stink of unfamiliar bodies and sweat. It's  _crowded_  - you can scarcely step inside - and Bucky's fingers clench on your upper arm as he steers you through.

" - this is absurd," Father is saying, his face drained of color as he sits at his desk. His voice is pleading. "Surely it cannot be proven - "

"On the contrary, Mr. President Elect," comes a new voice - your head tilts, ears buzzing - it's Tony Stark, standing to the wide with his arms crossed. He's shorter than you expected. "We can prove lots of things. How about stolen artwork? I'm sure the Countess of Pembroke would appreciate her collectables returned."

Father swallows.

"Sir, these are no small accusations." This from a woman, wearing a black suit and a UN badge. Her hair is pulled back severely, and she doesn't have laugh lines like Stark does. "Until they can be proven or dismissed, the law states that you are eligible for election - "

"The justice system is bloated!" Father protests. "A trial could take years - "

"If you were bribing the judges, it sure would," Stark says, and he moseys towards the desk. "But that sounds like a hassle. Here - I brought a friend to meet you." He waves an arm dramatically - Bucky's fingers tighten on your arm - and through the crows -

Moreau.

"I can give my testament," Moreau says - he looks older than you remember, but his voice is strong. "In front of all these witnesses - I am no longer on your payroll, sir."

Father squints, as if in confusion.

"This man paid me me present the changes he wished in the the nation's school system," Moreau says loudly, glancing around at the cameras - so the newspeople had made it past Lalk. "When I tried to end it, he threatened to have my killed if I told anyone. I have lived too long with the guilt of my actions to fear death any longer."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Stark says, and he clasps a hand on the shoulder of Moreau's tweed jacket. "And I'm equally sure that felons aren't to hold public office. What does the UN say to that?"

The woman hesitates, and shrugs. "The decision would be given to Parliament, but considering the records you have presented stating that 63 members have received donations from this man…"

Father swallows again.

" - it would fall under the jurisdiction of the new president. The election automatically goes to the next most popular vote. Where is Mr. Azad?"

A choked laugh escapes you, and your hand flies to clutch Bucky's. He leaves a long sigh in your ear, causing goosebumps you hardly notice. Could it be? Could it be? So  _simple_?

"Let's get these cameras out," the woman continues, and with a nod at the UN-uniformed guards, they start herding out the reporters. It's a bustle for the door as the room fills with protests, and you see Father take a silk handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead.

It's a complicated feeling. Sympathy for the position he is now in, and disgust for what he did to put him there.

Suddenly Moreau is standing in front of you, and he takes your empty hand in his. "Madam, I apologize for what you have been put through," he says, his voice low and mournful. "Had I known - "

"It is no worse than yours," you say, a little baffled. "Mr. Moreau, really - "

"I have heard it was you that had the courage to stand up against your father. I only wish I could have done so sooner." A smile, and his attention is claimed by the woman from the UN. You blink, and then Tony Stark takes Moreau's place.

"I was expecting a girl about yay high," he says frankly, putting his hand somewhere around his middle. "Has anyone ever mentioned how bad your handwriting is?"

"Yes," you say, lips quivering as you try not to laugh. "Many times - especially these last days."

"Hmm." Stark regards you up and down, and then his eyes flicker to Bucky behind you. "Good work, Barnes," he says. "Was it as bad as you thought it'd be?"

Bad? You turn your head, arching a brow at Bucky as he blanches. "Not at all," he says stiffly to Stark.

"Good to know. The rest of the team is in the kitchens. The UN has it from here." Tony wanders off.

A pause. A squeeze of your heart - Bucky is to leave? The job is finished, after all - why would he stay? Your eyes are burning, and the relief of Father's exposure is suddenly outweighed by the little cracks forming in your heart. But then Bucky's hands are on your shoulders, turning you to face him.

"Hey," he says softly, and you blink back tears. "Hey. You still plan on going home?"

Home.  _Home_. You nod.

"Then my mission's not over."

Startled, you glance up to see Bucky's blurry face - he's grinning.

"My job is to keep you safe," he says firmly. "And I don't think you're very safe here."

"Neither are you." Your voice is thick, and you try to smile. "Enhanced persons are still prohibited. Stark is lucky he was let in - I suppose that's because he didn't bring a suit."

"Didn't bring a suit any security could see," Bucky points out.

Your laugh is choked.

"Let's go," he says, and with your hand in his, leads you to the door.

The mansion is in an uproar. No less than three reporters try to stop you as you hurry with Bucky for your rooms, and the UN police are leading out Father's security team in handcuffs. No Lalk, as far as you can see - and you frown. Maybe he's already gone. You would expected more of a fight from him...

Down the corridor, and to your surprise, Natasha is walking towards you and Bucky. She's wearing spy gear instead of civilian clothes, and her smirk is feral.

"Hello," she says. "Heard the news?"

"Yep," Bucky says shortly.

"Good. Ready to get out of dodge?"

"I'm escorting her to a safe place," Bucky replies, and Natasha's eyes dart down to your clasped hands.

"Want me to delete that footage of you making out before the police get it?" she asks lightly.

"Please."

"Then have a fun trip." Natasha continues past you two, but turns back to call, "Sam's never gonna let you live this one down, Barnes!"

Bucky grumbles under his breath, but you start to giggle - he glares down at you, a little fondly. "What's he got to tease me about, anyway?" he asks, and he shifts closer to you, until you can feel his body against yours, in a very thrilling way. "Mission successful, and I got the girl."

"Actually," you muse, tugging on his lapels to bring him to your level. He grins, and you murmur, "I think I got you." A long, celebratory kiss. One of relief, of affection, of barriers falling down around your heart, ready to be open...

No need to be on hold anymore.

But with your eyes shut, and Bucky's too, the glinting, angry eyes from the next corridor go unnoticed.


	8. Chapter 8

The swaying motion of the train jolts you, but with a hand firmly within Bucky's grasp it's not hard to find your balance. Distant green scenery is a blur outside the windows. You're not looking, though. Nor even at the antique red and golden scrolled carpet or the natural wood panels that line the corridor - no, it's Bucky's broad back, his shoulders and the little bits of his hair escaping from his bun that keep your attention.

"This is it," he says at last, stopping outside a door. You give him a smile as he unlocks the door, sending a quick grin back at you before pulling you inside. The door closes, and a sigh of relief escapes your lips. "Not a bad room, for last minute," Bucky adds, dropping a few bags on the bed. A little shiver crawls up your spine.

"Thank you," you tell him, a little belatedly. The train is quietly chug-chugging, but you don't notice.

"For?"

"Taking me home."

"It's my pleasure, sugar." Bucky's eyes crinkle at the edges. "This is like a vacation, anyway - successful mission, and I make off with the girl? On a fancy train ride? I'm the luckiest bastard alive."

You can't help laughing at that, and his fingers tangle into yours - metal and flesh, as he tugs you closer to plant a kiss on the tip of your nose. Then your cheek, and then finally your lips, and your giggles are stalled.

"You did so great," Bucky murmurs into your mouth a few moments later. "That country is unlucky to lose you."

"They don't need me," you say gently. Peeking up into his blue eyes, you bite your lip as your fingers find a stray clump of hair in front of his ear, winding it up into a curl. "I'm only a symbol of my stepfather's crimes."

"Hardly. The people love you. You're so sweet and kind - your stepfather never even pretended." Bucky nudges your nose with his, and you giggle again. "What do you say to some lunch, sweetheart?"

"Yes. I hope the dining car is well-stocked."

"You might have to get used to poorer fare," he teases. "What us plebeians eat. You've been spoiled."

"I know I've been spoiled," you say, poking him in the side as he chortles. "But it's nothing compared to my grandmama's  _loshky._  I swear it."

"I believe you, I believe you…"

Back into the bright corridor. Bucky smiles down at you, arm around your shoulder and your cheeks feel so pleasantly warm - and this distraction accounts for being caught off guard.

Because without even realizing that you two aren't alone, a soft, cold  _whoosh_  streaks past your face, and a thud in the wall makes you start. Blinking, you see a silver-hilted knife stuck in the woodwork, swaying side to side as if in slow motion. Your heart lodges in your throat, as you turn to stare down the opposite side of the corridor to -

Mr. Lalk.

Mr. Lalk?

He's breathing heavily, fists balled at his side as his angry glare fastens on your face. A sinister smile is curling his lips. Bucky cusses under his breath, holding an arm out in front of you to push you behind him. Lalk's eyes flicker to Bucky, and his grin widens.

"Like a bird in a net," he giggles, his voice echoing weirdly down the empty corridor of the chugging train. "Like two pretty birds in a net. Two birds, pretty birds, pretty birds!"

"He's lost it," you murmur.

"No, girly, I haven't," Lalk says, mouth hardening as he stands taller. "I've  _finally_ got it. You know how long it took me to get your stupid father in position to win the presidency? I was nearly fired by Hydra about four times over the last decade; your father is a coward, he wouldn't move forward at the pace they wanted - "

"Excuse me," Bucky interrupts, his voice stony. "Did you say Hydra?"

Lalk blinks. "Hydra? Of  _course_  I said Hydra." He turns back to you. "Your father was never ambitious enough to aim for the presidency himself; I barely got him to agree with threatening his life every other week.  _He_  just wanted to sit in his villa and sip wine and dust off his stolen art - but no, Hydra had bigger plans.  _Has_ bigger plans. Once I get the girl and return to the country, I can finally take over without a puppet, and Hydra's assets will double. A whole  _country_? Think of it, girly!" His eyes light up maniacally, and instinctively you grasp Bucky's arm. His muscles are tight under your fingers. Lalk's voice is shrill. "The Avengers are illegal. Death penalties for enhanced individuals without government clearance. No extradition. Barely any banking laws. One day this small country - next year? Who knows? One a little bigger."

"And you think taking her back is somehow gonna win you a presidency?" Bucky asks roughly. His feet are planted, his arms securing you behind him. "Votes are already counted. The UN announced it."

Lalk shrugs. "Accidents happen. And what better way to secure my position than to bring back the mutilated body of the nation's _darling_  and her lover-turned-murderer to flare up public discord against the Avengers? To convince them they need to be  _protected from heroes_ ; to allow  _me,_  the humble man who fought off the Winter Soldier, to protect their country…"

"A fine idea," Bucky says coolly. "But I think you'll find it pretty hard to get past me. I'm not letting you get her."

Lalk's smile is slow and calculated; it sends an unpleasant shiver down your spine. "Come now, Soldat," he says, his voice mockingly gentle. "You think you're the only one Hydra pumped with drugs?" And raising a hand, his fingers clench around the dirty sleeve of his jacket, which he rips from the seams to expose bulging muscles. Then the other side. He tosses the discarded fabric away, rolling his neck from side to side. It cracks. Yuck.

"One last chance," Lalk says. "Return to Hydra - and I will give you my old job. Even let you keep the girl."

"Not gonna happen."

Lalk sighs, shaking his head. "Worth a try - but I prefer it this way. It's been a while since I've been properly challenged." With a flick of his wrist, another silver-handled knife appears in his hand, and he charges.

Bucky swears, pushing you roughly against the wall as Lalk goes for his shoulder - where metal meets flesh. Bucky catches Lalk's wrist before he can drive the knife home, but Lalk's other fist catches Bucky in the gut, and the wind is knocked out of him with an  _Oof!_

Panic is making your breath come short. Then there's horror as Bucky snaps Lalk's wrist with his metal hand, knife falling to the floor -  _what can you do? You hadn't even known, hadn't even suspected that Lalk was to blame for your father's empire_ … Bucky swings his opposite elbow to Lalk's scowling face, elbow catching him in the eye and drawing blood. Lalk stumbles back, panting. Bucky advances, his brow a single, angry line. Lalk pulls a gun halfway from his trousers - Bucky kicks it away. As terror begins to build in Lalk's eyes - weapons gone, wrist broken with the Winter Soldier bearing down on him - the fight is essentially over.

For his credit, Lalk doesn't give up. Desperation clearly resolves him; he stands up again, throwing punches at Bucky, but each is dodged expertly. Bucky strikes Lalk in the mouth exactly once, and blood pours out. Lalk gurgles thicky, spraying blood, and Bucky kicks him in the knee - the  _crack_  makes your stomach roll with nausea. Then Bucky's elbow is around Lalk's neck, and Lalk's fingernails scrape awfully on Bucky's metal hand as he gasps for air.

"Whatever serum they gave you sucks," Bucky hisses in the man's ear, as Lalk's eyes begin to bug out. "I'd have you tell Hydra they can stop going after me, but I don't feel like letting you live. Not after what you've done."

You;re covering your mouth with a hand, horrified. Bucky's gaze flickers to you. His question is so clear that he might have spoken aloud. You lower your hand, licking your lips and trying to steel yourself as you stare at Lalk's bloodied and puffy face. He'd set your father up. He'd threatened, he'd killed - Bucky's right. He shouldn't be allowed to live. But to have his death on your conscience?

Better to let him die than continue Hydra's work.

You lower your chin in a nod. Bucky's tongue darts out to wet his lips, then with a furious frown he tightens his hold on Lalk, and -

 _Snap_. It echoes thickly in the train car.

Lalk stops struggling.

Breakfast had not been a good idea, you ruminate groggily. Hands shaking, you reach for the knob to the room - train swaying you with dizziness and nausea - two steps inside, and your body purges itself into the toilet.

White spots are blocking your vision. Cold sweat - everywhere. Knees shaking, legs numb. Squeezing your eyes shut, you take a shuddering breath, and reach blindingly for a plastic cup by the tiny sink. Swish, swish, spit. Again. Again. Flush the toilet.

Your reflection in the mirror is drained of color. Doesn't matter. With another breath, you leave the miniscule bathroom and force yourself into the hallway - Bucky has opened one of the windows, and pulls his head back in from peering out as you appear.

"You okay?" he asks. His gaze is firm, but not dangerous. You don't look at Lalk's body on the ground.

"I'm okay," you tell him.

"Mind if I, uh - get rid of him?"

You shake your head.

Bucky bends back over the body, lifting it by the collar of Lalk's bloodied white shirt and his belt - head first through the train window, and you look away. Bucky closes the window with a snap.

"Was - um, was that wise?" you can't help asking. Bucky is flexing his flesh hand with a frown, examining the bloody scratches there left by Lalk. He glances up at you with a small, humorless smile.

"Hydra will find him. They inject trackers into all their agents. And they'll get the message, too. They'll know Lalk came after me."

"...And you?"

"And me what?"

"You...have a tracker?"

Bucky is silent for a moment. "I've torn them out. Don't remember how many. But they haven't found me in two years."

Gnawing your lip, you drink in the sight of Bucky across the train corridor - still moving beneath your feet, the soft chugging more than welcome now that safety is sure. Bucky smiles back, clearly attempting for comfort - but that's really not his forte. Choking out a laugh, you take three steps forward and bury yourself against his chest. Then his arms are around you, and he kisses the top of your head as you cling to him.

"Sorry 'bout that, sweetheart. Things get messy with me around."

"Don't care."

Bucky is silent for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"Perfectly. You saved my life."

He chuckles, dryly. "I could argue that it's my fault you were threatened in the first place."

"Don't be absurd," you tell him. "He wanted me dead so he could play on the sympathies of the people. He would have killed me and blamed it on anyone else he chose to. You heard him."

"I suppose you have a point."

Pulling away from him, you stare up at Bucky - and smile. "Thank you."

"Oh, um - you're welcome."

"You have excellent manners for an assassin," you tease, and wind your fingers in his to guide him back to the room. "Come on - there's a first aid kit. Let me take care of that hand."

And grinning, Bucky follows behind.

* * *

Bucky jolts awake, head lifting slightly from the pillows. His heart is racing - something had woken him. Blindly reaching out, he feels an empty place next to him. Still warm. The window is open, spilling in the grey light of near dawn through lace curtains.

He can hear a piano.

He swings his legs out of bed, rubbing his eyes as he slips out of your grandmama's spare bedroom to pad softly down the hall, and down the stairs. Under the light of a single lamp, you're sitting at an antique piano. Your back is to him as the music grows louder now. Bucky leans against the doorframe, unable to keep from smiling as he can hear your voice now, singing in French.

It sounds familiar...there's a tickle of the scent of fresh mud and old gunpowder in his nose. Something about spring buds on trees and the obnoxious laugh of a friend long dead. It's weary and nostalgic and fills every brim of Bucky's soul with something he can never have back. But he doesn't need it anymore.

Stepping forward, he traces some escaped hair at the back of your neck with his fingers - you don't stop playing, but your voice halters, and the soft giggle that follows warms him from his head to his toes.

"Sneaking around, now?" you tease.

"You left."

"Couldn't sleep." Ending the song in a lovely chord, it's quiet for a moment before you spin around on the bench, smiling up at Bucky a smile that twists in his chest.

"So you wanted to wake the whole house up, is that is?" Bucky grins, tracing your jaw with his fingers now. You giggle.

"Grandmama took out her hearing aids last night."

"So you only wanted to wake  _me_  up."

"You're wonderful company."

"You could have poked me."

"Should I have?"

Bucky pauses. "I probably would have liked that less."

"That's what I thought." Biting your lip, you rise to your feet and Bucky inhales your scent. The gunpowder is gone. Then your lips are on his - again - and there's sweetness and lazy affection and contended desire...just to stay there, for now, while the world goes on somewhere else.

Your skin glows in the dawn, and Bucky takes great pleasure in worshipping every inch in the strewn bedsheets and flower print linens. The lace curtains dapple the sunshine, which only makes you lovelier - and he's smiling. And afterwards he dozes, with you safe and secure in his arms and the scent of your hair in his nose.

He'll wake up later.


End file.
